Shadowboxer
by halfway-to-forever00
Summary: His mother tells him that fire is life itself, and so Mako lets the flares dance across his palm, tattooing a heartbeat against his pulse. It never occurs to him that those who play with flames always get burned.


**Shadowboxer**

_A/N: It might be helpful to do a quick search on what shadowboxing is, just to gain some context for this story._

* * *

**i.**

He is four when he falls in love for the first time.

It's November and his first flame burns bright in his hand, a fragile existence of gold and sparks even against the year's first snowfall.

He thinks it's the most beautiful sight he's ever seen.

Mako is four when he falls in love with fire.

**ii.**

His mother tells him that fire is life itself, and so Mako lets the flares dance and sluice across his palm, tattooing a heartbeat against his pulse.

It never occurs to him that those who play with flames always get burned.

**iii.**

Mako is eight when the fire takes his parents.

**iv.**

He doesn't remember much from that night, or perhaps he chooses not to.

Either way, Mako only recalls in quick glimpses and flashes of his mother's arm pushing him back into the shadows, of his father's strong back as it bursts to flames, of the acrid smell of death.

But in the light of day, these memories thin and dissipate into the wind like smoke, for which Mako is ever thankful.

.

Night brings about a whole other world of terrors.

He wakes to his mother's scream ringing in his ears and the taste of iron on his lips from biting his cheek in his sleep.

The nightmares are cruelly vivid, as if to compensate for the relative peace of his waking hours. Mako hears the quiet finality of bodies hitting the ground hundreds of times over, sees the scarlet red of his father's scarf against black ashes thousands of times over, and relives the same memories millions of times over.

Yet, the punishment is still not enough.

Mako knows, because the nightmares make him remember.

(He's screaming, but no sound leaves his mouth; he's got fire in his hands, but it's the same as the flames that sets his mother ablaze, and just like that, he's left cold and empty.)

Mako knows he tried, but in the end, all fire is the same, and in the end, trying wasn't enough.

(He could only watch them burn, and in the end, that's all that really matters.)

**v.**

In their first winter, Bolin falls sick.

Mako hasn't tried to bend since the fateful night; however, watching Bolin slip away into the cold is more than enough to cut through his layers of guilt and self-loathe.

But in spite of ironclad determination, in spite of his burning will to live, the flames Mako tries to summon for heat always flicker and die in the palm of his hand, searing smooth skin in its wake.

The first time he's burned, he screams out of shock more than pain. Then, in denial, he tries once more, this time fingers and mind wrestling with the blaze until his palms run red, black spots dancing across his eyes. And when reality finally sinks in, it shatters his mind until it hurts to breathe.

(The first time he's burned, Mako cries because he finally understands the true meaning of betrayal.)

.

Eventually, Mako can only pull Bolin close, lighting matches with bleeding hands and hating himself more and more with each passing day.

(His mother told him that fire is life itself. But he had watched his mother's face fade to ashes, and so Mako learns that fire is death itself.)

**vi.**

His firebending is gone.

Bolin grows sicker and thinner each day, and Mako grows terrified of waking up one morning, alone.

.

The Triple Threat Triads offer him a way out.

He doesn't think twice.

.

Mako makes his first run at the age of nine, and gets his first gang mark at thirteen.

**vii.**

Fighting is good.

Fighting dulls the other pains, makes him feel instead the stinging of bleeding knuckles and black eyes.

He's not very good at first, but Shady Shin grins at him with a mouthful of lies and tells him to clench his jaw next time. Mako wants to burn that leer off his face, and though the heat flares through his veins, the flames never come.

Not anymore.

.

Bolin becomes suspicious about the injuries Mako is nursing all the time, always asking probing questions with bright, intelligent eyes. Mako tells him he found work as a bodyguard, but misses the look of disbelief on his brother's face.

So when he's called for duty at another turf scuffle, Mako doesn't catch the flash of green coat, or the light footfalls that trail behind him all the way to an abandoned alleyway.

**viii.**

It all happens too fast.

And then Bolin is screaming, leg twisted in all the wrong ways, or maybe it's Mako's own voice curling up into the night like smoke, but he's desperate and beyond caring by this point and his brother's screams cut him to the bone.

Bolin hits the ground, and all Mako can see are his parents falling, over and over again.

Then his world bursts into flames.

.

The unbidden blast of fire explodes from his right palm, shredding through his skin like paper and turning the rival gang member's face into a brilliant display of red-orange flames. The man stumbles and retreats from the alleyway with his comrades, his curses and screams melting into incoherence and shadows.

The stench of burning flesh fills the empty backstreet, and Mako doubles over, retching and crying and fearing. Blackness pools across his vision like spilled ink, and he thinks he might finally be dying.

The thought terrifies him to no end.

"M-Mako?"

And in the end, it's Bolin's voice coming faintly from the folds of a dark shadow that brings him back.

Always Bolin.

Mako sets his teeth against the pain and begins crawling frantically toward the younger boy's prone form. "Yeah Bolin, I'm here," he soothes, determined to keep the tremor from his voice.

Bolin reaches for him, hand outstretched, and Mako holds on like a lifeline. "Guess we're still alive, huh?"

Mako uncurls his other fist, crusted with blood, and watches the flame as it's born into the palm of his hand, throwing Bolin's face into relief and sending sparks spiralling up into the night.

For the first time in six years, bending no longer hurts.

Mako lets out a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"Yeah, Bo. We're alive."

**ix.**

He works odd jobs for the next few years – everything from moving cargo at the docks to mopping the floors at City Hall. Bolin does his best too, though Mako makes sure to keep him off the streets and as far away from the gangs as possible.

Shady Shin corners him one day on the way back from the market, all slick words and sharp-toothed smiles.

But Mako only shows him the fire in the palm of his hand, and watches the flames as they reflect across his eyes, pupils dilated with fear.

It's a messy severance of ties, and Mako knows that he will pay the price later, but for the moment, it's good enough.

**x.**

Firebending comes back slowly to him, but Mako is nothing if not patient.

He practices in abandoned alleyways, throwing punch after punch until the brick wall is charred black. He picks up moves and tricks from observing street brawls, lurking warily at safe distances.

It's not always easy. Some days, especially after the reoccurring nightmares of his parents' lifeless eyes boring into him, the flames in his scarred hands merely flicker and fade into the wind.

On other days of frustration and anger, it roars and billows, uncontrollable like an inferno, reducing half of his sleeves to ash and leaving a trail of ruined skin in its wake.

Mako learns to roll up his sleeves and wear gloves after that.

**xi.**

When Toza finds the sixteen year old brawling in some forsaken back alley of Republic City, he doesn't ask many questions.

By the time he pulls the young Firebender off the bruised and battered challenger, Mako's already blackened the ground with soot and scorched the gloves right off his own hands.

Bolin's there in an instant, dropping the chunks of pavement he was in the process of hurling at the retreating thugs. "Mako! Mako, your hands!"

Mako pulls himself into a half stand, arm held out in front of the other boy defensively, "I'm fine, Bo. Stay back." He turns to the white-haired old man, blood running in rivulets and dripping from his fingertips. "Who are you?"

There's still a small blaze in the palm of his hand.

"Name's Toza. And you best put out that fire boy, I don't sit well with threats."

"You shouldn't have interfered," Mako replies, voice low with aggression and laced with mistrust. "I had them beat."

"What you had on your hands were five gang members all tryin'a do you in. What're you mixed up with them thugs for?"

Golden eyes narrow. "I'm not mixing with them. Anymore."

Bolin moves nervously to throw one of Mako's arms around his shoulder, shifting to support both their weights. "Well, thanks for everything, uh, Toza-sir, but we really should be going, please don't report us –"

"Oi. Not so fast."

The brothers freeze. Mako drops automatically into a defensive stance. Bolin opens his mouth, rare anger clouding his clear eyes. "Look, you can't call the cops –"

Toza rolls his eyes. "You boys ever heard of Probending?"

The brothers exchange a surprised look, and even Mako's face is wiped momentarily clear of suspicions.

Toza mentally congratulates himself on the new recruitment.

**xii.**

For street kids with no prior training, the brothers prove to be quite talented at the sport. Bolin even manages to put a hole the size of an earth disc into the wall at one point, to which Toza responds with a very confusing mix of pride and anger.

But it's the elder brother that puzzles Toza the most.

(There's a kitchen drawer in the brothers' apartment with a pack of matches.

Just in case.)

Mako's movements are precise and controlled, rare even for a seasoned Probender. But the fireballs never grow bigger than his fist, the flames never shoot further than a meter. And every so often, Mako would choke up in the middle of a sequence, as if some invisible hand had flipped a switch, leaving him cold and helpless.

Toza has never seen anything like it.

Like watching a man lose his bending, over and over again.

.

On those days, Bolin would rush to Mako's side, murmuring quiet words shared between two brothers with the same scars, and cradles Mako's hands with his own until the first flicker of fire bursts to life once more.

("It wasn't your fault.")

**xiii.**

"Step it up, boy, you won't last three seconds in a match with flames that weak."

"I'm_ trying_!"

"_Try harder!"_

His knees hit the mat with a defeated thud. When he speaks, Toza is surprised to find it shaking – a rare lapse of control for a boy who can't seem to let go.

"_I can't_."

The room is silent for a long time afterward, punctuated only by Mako's heavy breathing and the distant City sounds floating through the open window.

Toza remembers the apartment full of matches, and sighs.

"You ever heard of shadowboxing, kid?"

**xiv.**

"This is weird." _Right, left, right._

"There's nothing weird about training," Toza replies gruffly. "Drop your shoulders."

Mako obeys, executing another solid combination. _Jab, right uppercut, left hook._ "Doesn't Bolin need this too?"

Toza only says, "Keep going, and remember: no fire."

Mako's furrows his brows with concentration. There's a pant in his breath when he finally voices his frustrations. "What am I even aiming at?"

_Jab, straight right, left hook. _

Toza offers him a rare smile at that. "It's called shadowboxing for a reason, son."

**xv.**

They're cleaning up the training room one evening, Bolin having ducked out earlier with a date on one arm.

Mako finally breaks the silence. "I haven't really gotten around to thanking you properly. For taking us in, for giving us a chance. For everything."

Toza grunts.

"So – thank you."

"Was doin' all of us a favour," Toza replies gruffly, but his eyes are soft. "City don't need any more kids like you gettin' caught up in gang wars and whatnot. Woulda been a waste of talent, too. You and your brother are gonna go far."

Mako dumps an armload of dummies in a corner, frowning slightly. "I'm not talented."

Toza snorts with laughter at that. The boy may be frigid and far too serious for his own good, but he isn't proud or thankless. "You're getting there, kiddo."

But Mako only looks away, profile thrown into the shadows cast by the gym lights.

Toza starts to work on a stack of weights. "Do you know why I taught you to shadowbox?" Mako shakes his head stiffly, still facing the wall.

"It's an exercise in trainin' yourself to envision your opponent," he explains, jabbing an arthritic finger at the other's back, "and in findin' the rhythm of your element. You're out of touch with your fire is all – I knew it from the moment I saw you fighting in the alley."

At this, Mako raises his head and spins around, disbelief and a thin veil of optimism lining his eyes, as if Toza had just said something profound. Something illuminating.

Perhaps he had.

.

They settle back into a comfortable silence again, and when he finishes stacking the weights, Toza yawns widely. "Well, this old man's turnin' in early for the night. Finish up with those mats, will ya?"

Mako nods. "Goodnight."

Toza waves a lazy hand, shuffling for the door, when Mako calls out one last time.

"How did you know? When you first saw me in the alley, I mean."

Toza calls back without turning around.

"You're a fighter, kid. Got them eyes like fire."

**xvi.**

He stands in the middle of the empty training room, bandaged fists curling and uncurling, eyes closed, letting the dark that he has always been so afraid of shroud him like a blanket.

Mako raises his fists, drops his shoulders, and takes a stance.

_No fire_, he reminds himself, and opens his eyes.

**xvii.**

In their first match, Mako falters.

He's knocked into the water within minutes, and as the weight of the universe presses down on his lungs, Mako considers for a wild moment of just letting go, of sinking to the cold, dark bottom with pockets full of heavy fears and quiet guilt.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell rings.

Mako hears his name.

"-Bro! Hey, Mako! _Mako!_"

The sound is a spark on dry timber, and it catches like flames in the wind, igniting an inferno up and down his spine.

He kicks, once, twice – _you're a fighter, kid – _and when he breaks through the water, Bolin is waiting on the other side, hand outstretched.

(_Guess we're still alive, huh?_

_Yeah Bo. We're alive._)

**xviii.**

"Sorry. I screwed up big time."

"What're you talking about?" Bolin nudges him with a playful elbow as they step onto the elevator. "The match isn't over yet, it's only been one round. We can still win this!"

Mako stares into the pool of water slowly forming around his feet. "What's the point of Probending if I can't bend?"

Bolin rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, restless with adrenaline. "You can bend, bro," he says resolutely, eyes still trained on the arena platform. "Remember the night I followed you to a turf war? You fought off those thugs singlehandedly _and_ firebent for the first time in years!"

Mako frowns. "I got us into that mess to begin with –"

Bolin cuts him off there, squeezing his shoulder with a large, firm hand lined with his own scars and callouses, and Mako realizes for the first time that, somewhere and somehow along the way, the tables had turned; his little brother had now become his guardian.

"Mako, you saved my life that night."

He should have seen it coming, but the words hit him square in the chest anyway in a soft burst of warmth and grows roots of something nostalgic around his heart.

Mako thinks it might be hope.

Bolin is smiling when Mako finally raises his head, a smile brighter than fire itself, and Mako suddenly remembers the words he's buried for so long.

_(fire is life itself)_

_._

The lift groans to a halt as the referee lets loose a shrill whistle blast. Bolin opens his arms, and Mako begins to believe that maybe it was Bolin that had been saving him, all along.

"Love ya, big bro."

"Love you back, little bro."

**xix.**

This time, the fire comes like second nature, and Mako is weightless against gravity, against all odds and the scarlet burdens he's draped over his shoulders for so long.

The bell signals the final, tie-breaking round, and he remembers Toza's words, dropping his shoulders and raising his fists like in his shadowboxing routines.

His first strike is powerful, but doesn't reach past the middle line. A blast of heat from the opposing team misses his shoulder by inches, close enough to singe cloth, and Mako staggers back, digging in his heel and gritting his teeth.

The acrid smell of burning rushes at him with the force of a tidal wave, clouding his senses and making the world spin. Mako chokes, losing all the air in his body as he thinks of the slow arc of his father's falling body, of blood on his scarred and ruined hands, of death.

_It's over. I'm over._

But then his mind jumps, a skipping needle on a scarred album, back to Bolin as it always does – because all roads lead to the one he's always walking towards, leaving a trail of soot and ashes in his wake.

Mako raises his fists, drops his shoulders, and takes a stance.

_No fire_, he reminds himself, and when he opens his eyes, Mako only sees himself standing at the other end of the ring.

("It's called shadowboxing for a reason, son.")

And so, Mako tells himself to do what he does best.

Mako fights.

.

He throws the final punch, and this time, the fire roars like a dragon, strong in its blaze but controlled in its fury.

The knockout bell resounds across the arena to the roar of the crowd, but Mako only hears the sound of smoke fading into the air, his mother's voice leaving with it.

_Fire is life itself._

(Bolin is all wide grins and proud eyes, his fist thumping softly between Mako's shoulder-blades, and so Mako thinks he might finally understand, after all.)

**xx.**

Korra moves with the force of a firestorm itself, and he knows he'll be burned if he gets too close.

But in the end, Mako is still a boy with eyes like fire, and in the end, she's still the most beautiful sight he's ever seen.

(He is eighteen when he falls in love, again.)

_End_.


End file.
